


All She Wanted

by Kawaiicoyote



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dont let that discourage you from reading, F/M, I'm so so bad at tagging, that's all I can really say about this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 00:48:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kawaiicoyote/pseuds/Kawaiicoyote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia Martin doesn't want a boyfriend. All she wants is a distraction. A distraction she hopes to find with Stiles. But is a distraction what she really wants?</p>
            </blockquote>





	All She Wanted

**Author's Note:**

> I want to apologize before hand for this.  
> This song is inspired purely by Robot Koch - Nitesky Ft LaMonica (or better known as the song that plays in the background when Jackson and Lydia discover how much they love each other in the end of Season 2)  
> This is unbeat'd, I think. It might have a rough quick skimming but I can't remember.

The room around them is dark; just enough light streaming in through the cracks in the curtains to ensure the pair won’t trip over anything.

They stand at the side of her bed, the plush cream color carpet soft against the soles of their feet. Normally the familiarity of her room would be a comfort to her, but in the moment it just makes her stomach churn uneasily.

She slides the straps of her nightgown down her shoulders and it sweeps down her body to pool around her feet. There’s a beat of hesitancy before she turns and climbs onto her bed and tries to settle the beating of her heart and stares at the window on the other side of the room, ignoring the sounds of the boy still beside the bed as layer by layer his clothes join hers on the floor.

There’s as much hesitancy in his movements as hers when he finally joins her on the bed. He lies on his side looking down at her. They say nothing when she shuffles down onto the bed to lie flat on her back. He’s close enough to her that she can feel his body heat against her arm.

When she feels his fingertips ghost over the garish scars at her side she doesn’t finch or move away, but she doesn’t like it. She doesn’t like to be reminded that they’re there.

His fingertips press closer, mapping the silky soft scar tissue with such tenderness in the gesture it makes her chest constrict. She didn’t want intimacy, she wanted distraction. A distraction in the form of a boy with whiskey color eyes and a stupid sense of humor and a fifteen year plan on how to win her heart.

In the back of her mind she scoffs at that. Because she doesn’t have a heart left to give anyone, not anymore.

What’s left of it is in a land far away, miles and oceans apart, in London.

Lydia swallows hard and covers Stiles hand with hers, stilling his tender touch that she just can’t bear anymore.

In the dim light his eyes find hers as he moves his hand out from under hers and reaches to tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear ad gives her the softest, most genuine, smile she’s ever seen on his face.

It makes her want to stop, to tell him this is such a bad idea, that’s she’s _so fucking sorry_ she ever asked him to take her to bed.

But Lydia is a selfish person, or so she tells herself. She’s selfish and doesn’t want to feel pain or to acknowledge she’s a broken shell of the vibrant social butterfly she used to be.  She just wants to feel good in the only way that the pleasures of the body can make her.

She tears her eyes away from his and twists away, grateful for the momentary distraction of digging into bedside table for one of the condoms she never bothered to throw away.

He stares at the offered square, looks startled even. With an impatient huff she presses it into his palm with more force than necessary.

Finally getting his head in the game he sits up, turning away from her so that she can just only make out his profile. She’s secretly glad she doesn’t have to look at him for a moment.

Stiles licks his lips as he rolls the lamb skin condom on, she closes her eyes tight when she remembers why there are no latex condoms in her nightstand.  The unwelcome thought still crawls it’s way to the surface anyway

 _He_ had been allergic to latex.

Lydia’s eyes snap open when the bed beside her shifts. She finds Stile’s torso twisted, leaning half over her and looking her right in the eyes. The seriousness on his normally carefree face has the bruised and battered muscle she used to call a heart seize in her chest.

“Tell me you want this,” he says, breaking the quiet in the room. For once his voice doesn’t crack or waver. It’s full of concern and even maybe a determination. It’s the first time she’s ever heard him talk like this to her.

“I need this,” Lydia says back, no hesitation needed. Though this isn’t something she wants. She doesn’t want the intimacy or the feelings that Stiles is bringing into this _thing_ , this distraction. And in the end, that’s all she needs. Or, it’s at least what she keeps telling herself.

He stares down at her, like he’s looking for some kind of answer. Whatever he finds must be enough for him. In the next minute he’s shifting his lower body over, and Lydia’s legs fall open, allowing him to slot himself against her easily.

He groans and she sighs at the contact.

There’s a moment, when Stiles is reaching between their bodies to line himself with her entrance, that he pauses and just looks up at her.

She freezes but tries to keep her expression light. She honestly doesn’t know how she would feel if he were to stop, to deny her this after everything else.

The moment is gone when he breaks eye contact in favor to look down and make sure he’s lined up correctly.

Lydia’s breath catches when he breeches her. It hasn’t been long since her last partner, not really. But there’s an added heaviness to what she’s doing that has absolutely nothing to do with Stiles weight over her. When he bottoms out, pelvis pressed firmly against her with a breathy groan, it hits her like a brick to the head exactly what she’s doing.

She shuts down all thoughts except for just _feeling_. She focuses on the steady roll and thrust of his hips. On the feel as he slides down to brace himself on his forearms, making his lithe weight more pronounced as it presses her down into the mattress.

 His breath ghosting across her face gives her a moment of blind panic. Those whiskey color eyes are so deep and looking right at her then looking down at her mouth.

She doesn’t want him to kiss her. It’s too intimate. Something she doesn’t want to share with him.

Instead she throws her head back and offers the long pale column of her throat to him.

It’s better this way.

His lips are plump and soft against her skin, his breath a warm sigh with each peppered kiss and hesitant suckle as he languidly presses deeper inside of her.

She squeezes her eyes shut and hopes the dry sob that catches in her throat sounds more like a gasp to him that anything. Because it’s starting to feel like too much to her.

There’s too much connection, too much feeling, just too much that she doesn’t want that’s making what’s happening feel like more than it is. More than it should be.

With trembling hands she reaches, sinks her nails into his back that make draw a gasp from Stiles and make his hips stutter hard. She lifts her hips and draws her knees to lock like a vice around him, her nails sinking in harder.

“More,” she finds herself gasping out desperately, urging him with a roll of her hips and clenches her inner muscles around him tighter.

Stiles makes a chocking noise, clearly started at the change but willingly obliges as he drops down and just lets loose, letting go of any finesse he’d been trying to keep going.

His thrusts are hard and quick bordering on painful but Lydia urges him on, lets him bury his face against her neck as she clings to him and stares up at the ceiling.

Her nails break through the skin of his back but still earn her a deep guttural moan from him.

It all begins to be too much and she starts to feel claustrophobic.

Brown eyes should be blue.

Plump lips against her neck and shoulder should be thinner.

The slender, narrow hips, pressing against her should be more athletic and muscular.

The soft tufts of brown hair one of her hands threads through and tightens in should be highlighted blonde with too much product.

A particularly hard thrust has her back bowing under Stiles and crying out and the dam behind her eyes she hadn’t realized had been building breaks and unleashes hot wetness down her face as she clings tighter to Stiles and scores his back, adding to the claw marks already left by her.

Everything is wrong, so wrong, and she feels like she just can’t _breathe_.

Stiles suddenly tenses up above her, his hips stuttering and then press hard into her and he moans so wantonly before slumping down against her.

His harsh breathing fills her ears, gradually tapering off.

He pushes himself up, finally slipping out of her.

She can see the exact moment when he notices she’s crying. Stile’s whole body goes rigid and the way his face completely falls makes Lydia only cry harder.

This time Stiles doesn’t try to console her, for which she is immensely grateful.  As soon as he’s off of her and off of the bed she rolls away from him and curls onto her side, hiding her face into a her pillow.

He doesn’t say a word to her as he dresses.

It’s quiet for a moment but then the softness of the blanket that she keeps at the bottom of the bed is being pulled over her.

When Lydia looks over her shoulder she catches the last of Stiles back as he closes the door behind him.

He doesn’t try to come back into her bed after that night.

Lydia can only feel relieved for it.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> *twiddles thumbs* So, I'd really like to know what you all thought. Don't hate me!


End file.
